Song of a Scarlet Night
by Austro-Hungarian Empire
Summary: Tales regarding Scarlet Crusaders and their adventures, whether it be from Northrend, Lordaeron or another realm entirely, see the lives of these self-proclaimed heroes, their faults, their weaknesses, their mistakes and their strength, courage and valor to which even the Knights of the Silver Hand applaud. Rating may increase, but only for certain chapters.
1. Songs of a Scarlet Night

**I do not own WoW.**

Chirp, chirp. The crickets' chorus their melody.

Chirp, chirp. Chirping throughout the night.

The once sacred glades full of luscious grass, now decayed and defiled by horrors not perceivable within the healthy mental condition of any mortal.

The crickets are the only creature that remains from old Lordaeron, replacing the ever soothing and empowering sounds of bells from the capital.

O, the capital! The cloud of despair which looms over the ominous fortress of the Forsaken is not to be trifled with.

What pillar of a community so prestigious and divine deserves such a fate?

The last beacon of enlightenment and protection in the region had been extinguished by the ever encroaching darkness which seeks the utter destruction of patrons who breath and plant life which blossoms and blooms.

However, a lilypad upon the dead lake still remained. A monastery, once a gathering spot for agents of serenity, now turned into a fortress.

The crimson moon hung over the twilighted sky, the millions of sky candles known as stars helping to lighten the canvas of space.

Below the night's sky, the monastery sat, silent and still.

Once, lanterns moved with their owners across the ruined hills in hopes of keeping the monastery secure, but now no light to be seen.

Within the monastery itself, no sound emanated to indicate any sign of any living entities.

The graveyard, for once in so many years, only retained the bones and corpses of fallen; no longer any risen or spectres of the past. All there, too, were silent and still.

The halls of which low ceilings hung now find themselves unoccupied, with the sole exception of human bodies originated in red clothing.

The courtyard, too, remained silent, generally a buzz with the noise of trainees practicing their magic and melee against wooden enemies who were soon hoped to be replaced by skeletal opponents. Only more corpses.

No sound other than the crickets outside the monastery.

Within the grand halls, where prayers and masses were held now, too, lay silent underneath the crimson moon.

The corpses lay upon the stones, not yet old enough to rot, but still old enough to smell of a rancid odor.

The flies would come soon, to feed upon their feast, left by the adventurers who had come before.

And, yet, a man of most buff stature lied, face down against the carpet, his flattened hand outstretched toward the altar. Upon the altar, a woman was. Her blood had trickled from the altar down to the carpet, replacing it's natural red color with crimson.

However, her eyes opened, suddenly, the Light once more saving her from the cold clutches of death.

And thus….

Among the sympathies of night, the crickets chirped their tone.

However, soon, the war cries of the resurrected would be heard, the howls of hounds, the crackling of flame would emanate from the vast halls.

As long as the Blades of the Anointed never pierce her flesh...all will resume as normal.

And so forth, the song continues.

**Hello, ladies and gentlemen. I would like to introduce you to a collection of one-shots revolves around the Scarlet Crusade and it's members. **

**I am going to come straight forward right now and tell you: ****I am doing whatever the hell I want with it.**

**In meaning, that some of these will be comedy, some of these will be tragedy and everything in between, hell maybe even horror. This happened to be a "poem" I suppose you could call it, because I needed to open on a good note, however these chapters could range from small poems, to very short one-shots, to medium length and long one-shots to some chapters being connected to others and so on and so forth. **

**I decided to start this story because writing thousands and thousands of words isn't always easy (or fun, quite frankly) and I figured the easiest way to relax while writing and yet not having to worry about it's length, plot holes or etc. was to make a bunch of short stories. Basically, this collection will be my motivator/kick starter to writing other stories of mine.**

**Also, I meant to update this when I had three chapters done, but I decided on just writing the first one because I am impatient. And, updating for this story should be frequent, seeing as how these chapters are short. There should be other chapters out shortly, so please stay tuned. **


	2. Darkness in Fairbanks

**I do not own WoW**

Dark. Nothing but darkness.

Sitting alone, all of his days, in agony and depression.

Were the Forsaken not emotionless? He had wished.

Damn the Crusade. Damn them all to the Light forsaken crevice in which they casted him into.

The once noble Fairbanks no longer fair.

No longer noble. No longer living.

Trapped within his own mistakes.

Forever to re-witness the day's events which happened all those years ago.

The betrayal of Renault Mograine.

Damn him.

He shouldn't be tamed.

He should be a mindless undead.

He should not walk, nor continue to exist.

But he does not. His soul may be trapped within this body, but this was not him. Not anymore.

He was merely a puppet. A tool. An idol to be worshipped by those fanatical Light followers.

But who?

Who could tame him within such a state? The new High Inquisitor? Priests? Dathrohan?

...Perhaps, Dathrohan.

After all, Dathrohan had been the one to bring down the blade upon neck.

But why? How could such a noble paladin, a friend, not conceive to and defend his words?

Fairbanks had a sneaking suspicion: Dathrohan had either lost his mind (such as all other Scarlet Crusaders had) or the Dathrohan who had killed him was merely an illusion, an imposter masquerading as Dathrohan.

The former proved a worthy conclusion.

However, any possibility seemed plausible, seeing as how the Scourage had many tricks in destroying Lordaeron.

Although, through benefit of the doubt, how in all likeliness could Fairbanks trust his own thoughts?

His mind has literally and figuratively decayed.

He had become nothing.

He _was_ nothing.

A shell.

O the self loathing!

O how the Light had forsaken him!

Such tragedy had befallen him!

He was truly lost!

Truly damned!

...Truly forsaken.

Thus, his mindless corpse stood there, the light of the world forever to be never present.

His eyes forever blind.

He was truly in Argus.

Truly within a black abassy in which he could not feel, taste, smell, touch. Only hear and see.

Sound rarely came through the thick, brick walls of his secluded shell.

The occasional sound of combat. Of yells and battle cries.

For the Light? Bah!

What Light remained?

None for him. Only time, time of which he could not continually keep track of. Seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, years?

They all held of the same value. None.

Only darkness had real value. The small box of a void he inhabited.

His sin to begin this crusade. Now he must pay his toll.

He remained forever lost.

And lost ones tend to never be found...


End file.
